


A Little Like Home

by curiositydooropened



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, F/M, Pre-Abandon All Hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24435661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositydooropened/pseuds/curiositydooropened
Summary: “Can I get a beer from you, sweetheart, or do I just get to enjoy the view?”Jo cocked her hip out of habit, but something about that voice sent shivers down her spine. It was too gruff, too familiar, it felt a little too much like home. She glanced upward at the mirror behind the bar to see him sitting there, the hunter that haunted her dreams.She turned to face him, spouting his drink order, and his face immediately clicked into recognition.“Jo?” He blinked back at her, shocked expression turning downward into a frown almost immediately.-Jo's living a quiet life as a barkeep and a familiar hunter stumbles in after a hunt. They reminisce.
Relationships: Jo Harvelle/Dean Winchester
Comments: 15
Kudos: 43





	A Little Like Home

The jukebox crooned hair metal, and the humidity of bodies sweating alcohol filled the room with the familiar taste of home. Jo lapped spilled liquor from the back of her hands and partook in the clacking of ceremonious balls against balls for the first break. She paraded around the room until the waistband of her jeans and the strap of her bra had to be emptied into a personal section of the cash drawer. Even that overflowed.

It felt like home, the smell of peanuts and beer and men, sweaty after a days work. It tasted like home, salted and limed water when she faked tequila shots for an extra few tips. If anything, she realized hunters and construction workers were far too similar, loud-mouthed and rough with their hands. Yeah, it felt like home, but it wasn’t.

Every day, crawling up the stairs to the apartment she’d leased, she felt the sting of loneliness aching in her tired calves and back. She missed her mom, she missed Ash. Of course, she’d call home, but it wasn’t the same. She missed the adrenaline rush of a hunt, the sound of hunters discussing their kills, the fist fights she used to break up with shots fired to the sky and barrels pointed.

Don’t get her wrong, she’d encountered a hunter or two, men who sat dirty in dark corners, whispering, forgetting the blood still caked on their shirt collar or beneath their fingernails. They had big appetites and hefty thirst, and they tipped well because the money wasn’t theirs. She’d listen intently, make notes on her pad to stash into her tip drawer for later. Mostly, the things they were hunting had been caught, never did she let them know who she was.

She put all ten fingers into the rims of shot glasses, clanking them together on her way to the bar. She dumped them onto the counter to sort into the washer. It was Kristen’s turn to load, but she seemed preoccupied with the group of frat boys in the corner. Jo rolled her eyes. Her back was to the bar, organizing the mess, and a gruff voice hollered for a beer.

“Can I get a beer from you, sweetheart, or do I just get to enjoy the view?”

Jo cocked her hip out of habit, but something about that voice sent shivers down her spine. It was too gruff, too familiar, it felt a little _too_ much like home. She glanced upward at the mirror behind the bar to see him sitting there, the hunter that haunted her dreams.

She turned to face him, spouting his drink order, and his face immediately clicked into recognition.

“Jo?” He blinked back at her, shocked expression turning downward into a frown almost immediately.

She shook her head, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed the syllable fall from his lips. She cracked open his beer, pushing it to him from across the bar.

“Does your mother know you’re here?”

She rolled her eyes, getting back to work on unloading the washer, drying with the discarded rag between her and him. “Yes, she knows.” She half-lied. Sure, Mom knew where she lived and where she worked, and she gave her approval as long as Jo promised to go to school and get a degree. She just didn’t tell her about the hunters, or about the research she was still putting into the job.

She looked up at the hunter as he took a sip of his beer, his face beyond satisfied with the cold liquid. He’d just finished a hunt. She could tell by the sweat on his brow and the sag of his broad shoulders, not to mention the cut he was failed to hide on his neck. “You okay?” She gestured, passing him a small napkin for the blood stain that trickled to the collar of his shirt.

“Thanks,” he grumbled, mopping it up in the mirror over her head. “You should see the other guy.”

“What was it?” She asked, leaning in. She checked over his shoulder for other hunters, for other ears.

“No way I’m telling you. If your mom found out I was feeding you information, I’d look a hell of a lot worse than this.”

“Dean,” she protested.

“Jo,” his voice raised in volume, and her heart raced at the sound of it. If anyone knew her real name, she could be in a world of hurt.

“It’s Beth,” she shot him a look. He nodded, jaw tight. It was his turn to look around.

“So what are you doing here anyway?”

“Working.” She noticed a new customer at the other end of the bar, and she sashayed his direction. “Hello, handsome, what can I do you for this evening?” She could feel Dean’s eyes on her, boring white hot holes into her skull. She knew he had questions, and more importantly she knew he had answers. Something’d cut him up good, and according to her research, it felt like demons. Omens were never good.

She ignored the hunter at the bar for a long while, serving and schmoozing, and hitting balls with pool sticks and making that cash. She knew Dean wouldn’t leave. She knew he’d be there to help her lift chairs onto tables and turn the lights out, just as he always had at the Roadhouse. So in her place, she sent Kristen to refill his drink, and later she sent Kristen home, and the entire time, she felt Dean’s eyes on her.

She hadn’t realized she enjoyed it so much, toying with him, but it sort of felt just desserts after all the times he lingered too close to her face, that pretty boy smirk etched onto perfect lips. It was about time she made him wait.

She made last call and scrounged up some taxis for her regular stragglers, giving them generous pats on the ass on their ways out. One fellow at the bar asked what time she was off, but before she could answer Dean popped up with a, “sorry pal, she’s with me.” Jo couldn’t deny the flutter in her stomach at the thought, until he ruined it with a smug, “she’s my sister.” The guy at the bar seemed amusingly put off.

Finally, when they’d all but cleared out, and she had quadruple locked the doors behind them, Dean addressed her. “So, _Beth_ , are you going to talk to me yet?”

Instead of answering, Jo poured them both a shot of whisky, a real shot, and she clicked the glasses together. It went down smooth, a much needed nerve suppressant to dampen the tingle in her fingers since the moment she heard his voice. To be honest, she always needed whisky when she thought of Dean, to suppress any tingles in any part of her person.

She hated the effect he had on her, one smoky rumble of his voice and her legs felt like jell-o. Even when she was pissed at him, like really pissed because he’d said or done something so ridiculous and misogynistic, he could melt her like butter on a hot day. She pretended not to watch him take his shot, pretended not to wish those lips were on her instead of that glass, pretended his stare wasn’t concerned but admiration, arousal, even.

She took the glass back and turned to load the washer for the last time. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

Dean was playing just as coy as she was. He tapped a wad of cash on the counter before standing up from his stool. She watched him in the mirror, heart pounding, praying to God he wasn’t going to say goodbye that quickly. He’d waited, hadn’t he? His jacket lay across the bar stool beside him, heavy, tired. He reached for the sleeves of his shirt and rolled them up to his elbows. “Chairs?” He asked, walking toward a table to close up shop.

Her heartbeat slowed, relieved. “I’m not giving you a share of my tips.”

Dean barked a laugh. “Come on, Jo. I don’t have the assets to flaunt for my tips like you do.”

It stung a little, but she liked it.

“Does Ellen know you do what you do for tips?”

“Learned from the best, didn’t I?”

Dean shuddered. “Don’t get me wrong, your mom’s a MILF, but gross. She’s like my surrogate mother.”

And Jo was his sister. Yeah, he mentioned that. She ignored him, turned on the washer, made to count the till.

“I mean, you must make crap tons in a gig like this. Real money too, or at least, real money that other idiots worked hard for.”

He meant other idiots that weren’t hunters. “Speaking of real idiots, where’s your brother?”

“Pouting back at the motel, I’m sure.”

“Trouble in fraterdise?”

“I’m not worried. He’ll get over himself.”

Jo knew that avoided glance, the false truths. Something was up with them. It wasn’t just a brotherly tiff. They’d fought, and she could feel it. Dean always thought he could lie through his teeth, that he was good at it. Jo could read him like a friggin’ book. His shoulders slumped, exhaustion covered his face. He lifted a chair and his shirt rode up, and Jo noticed a series of bruises around his hip bone, black and blue and fleshy.

They finished closing up in mostly silence, with the occasional flirtatious dig. Their grins were masked in tension. She grabbed her envelope of cash, and he grabbed his jacket, and he walked her near the entrance to the stairs to her apartment.

“Listen, Jo,” he was saying goodbye. “It’s really good to see you. I’m sure Sammy’s worried about me.” Sam would be fine.

“Say you’ll call and I’ll punch your lights out.” She teased, hiding the swallow of discontent. She needed another drink.

Dean let out an awkward laugh, scratching the back of his neck. She was reminded of the scratch on his throat, the trickle of blood, the hunt.

“So did you kill the son of a bitch or do I need to arm myself?”

“Don’t you always arm yourself?”

She nodded toward the staircase. “Come up. I won’t bite.”

Dean eyed her carefully. She watched the cogs turn, could see the indecision behind his eyes. He was unsure of compromise, of giving in to her, of what was waiting for him up those stairs.

She didn’t know what to do to convince him, so she went with reverse psychology. “Or not,” she shrugged. “Good seeing you, Dean. Tell Sam I said hi.”

It worked. She gave an irritated nod and made her way up the rickety staircase. She made sure to add extra swagger to each step, guaranteed he was watching her. Soon, she heard the clamber of heavy boots behind her.

“Jesus, Jo, wait,” he cursed under his breath.

The door to her apartment unlocked with several satisfying clicks, and the two of them entered. She shoved her envelope into a drawer of the entrance table and slammed her keys down on top of it. She stepped in, crossing the small living/bed space to reach for a bottle of Jack she’d jacked the weekend before. She popped it open and offered it to her guest.

“I bet Ellen doesn’t know about all of this.” Dean pointed to the spattering of notes and research plastered to her bedroom walls. Signs, omens, any sort of story she’d overheard from hunters. She needed to be prepared for the worst. Her daddy had taught her that.

“And you won’t tell her.” She poured two more glasses, kicking off her boots in the small kitchen area. Dean observed her notes, tracing hand drawn maps and demonic symbols. She squared up beside him, shoving the glass into his hand. They clinked.

“So this is what it means when your mom said you’re ‘studying’. What’re these?” Dean asked, pointing at some print out pages from the newspaper.

“Local legend, a guy with no face out on the highway. Heard about it from some hunters a while back. Guess they salted and burned the bones.”

“You’re hearing things from hunters?”

“More like overhearing.”

“Good. If your mom knew you were hunting, she’d have my head on a spike.”

Jo rolled her eyes, moving from the wall to the couch, sipping at her drink. “I forgot Dean Winchester is responsible for everyone that comes into his life.”

“Damn right, I am.”

“Yup. None of us have any autonomy. We’re just Dean’s possessions, things he has to look after.” She shot him a look. She let herself sink into the cushions, her legs groaning from a night on her feet.

“You sound like Sam.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“Ah,” she patted the seat next to her. She hadn’t realized Dean had shrugged off his jacket, left it beside the door. He looked handsome in those stupid Henleys, sleeves rolled to expose scratched up forearms, buttons unbuttoned one too many to reveal a hint of black ink on his chest. “Did protective Big Brother Mode kick in tonight? That what gave you that cut?”

Dean took a long swig of his drink and settled down beside her, throwing on arm across the back of the couch. “No, a shifter did that.”

“A shifter?”

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it until now. She’d just been so flustered upon his arrival, she hadn’t even considered he wasn’t Dean. He was her weakness, the perfect disguise. She shifted to pull her dad’s knife from her hip and quickly twisted it to slice into Dean’s arm, closest to her. He cried out, grabbing her wrist, but she didn’t see his flesh burn, only the fire behind his eyes.

“What the hell, Jo?”

She shrugged. “I had to make sure.”

“Yeah, hours ago!”

She found a discarded t-shirt on the ground and used it to put pressure on his arm and stop the bleeding, but she knew he’d be fine.

“If I were a shifter, you’d be dead by now!” He grumbled, wincing under her touch. He was right. She’d been stupid, unprepared, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah, but I can’t just kill a shifter out in the open, can I? Wouldn’t that ruin my cover? So I had to get you alone.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve been leading unsuspecting monsters into your home.”

She rolled her eyes, taking another sip. “Just you, sparky.”

“Good.” There was something in his voice then, jealousy? She felt hopeful. She watched as his eyes trailed her apartment. He’d seen the research wall, the books stacked tall on the floor beneath it. She had her small kitchen, dishes done and put away in cupboards, a loaf of bread molding on the counter. Beside that, in the back of the room, near the window, was her bed. She hadn’t thought to make it, although now she wondered if the unkempt appearance was alluring. She felt her face grow hot, and she looked away from him, afraid to see anything in his expression.

“Nice digs, you’ve got here.”

She snorted. “Right.”

“No, I mean it. At least it is digs, you know? You have your own space. No seedy motels, no grumpy roommates. Must be nice.”

She nodded.

“You know, it was a little weird bumping into you tonight. A little… clandestine.”

Jo snorted. “How many drinks did you have?”

“No, I just mean, you’ve been on my mind a lot recently.” His eyes were trained on her. Her face remained neutral, it was the safest bet. “You and your mom.”

She released her breath, pulling her gaze from him. Got it, more of this brother/sister crap.

“It’s just good to see a familiar face, that’s all.”

Maybe he was drunk. She flashed him a hurt smile, tried to hide it, couldn’t pretend much longer. “It’s good to see you too, Dean.” It was always good to see him, good on the eyes, good on the ears, good on the soul. Even if he was a jackass who ran his mouth, he made her feel human again, feel whole, like something had been missing until he came around.

Dean leaned forward, set his drink on the coffee table, and turned to pull her drink away and do the same. Then, he cupped her small hand in his and pulling her upright. “Humor me.”

He was warm, too warm, and he smelled like sweat and alcohol and that cheap-o brand of aftershave he bought, pine scented. He forced her up and into his arms, and he rested a heavy hand on the small of her back, bringing her in closer.

“What are you doing?” She laughed, arms bent at the elbows.

They began to sway, in the silence of her studio apartment. The movement was soft at first, liquified hips in sensual circles, all bent knees. Her breath caught in a grin she failed to hide, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. He hummed something incredibly off-tune, and as it crescendoed to some semblance of a chorus, he picked up the dramatics, swinging their arms back and forth until they were both cackling.

“So, you’re a terrible dancer _and_ a terrible singer.” She clarified, breathless, body tingling.

“You are welcome.” His face was inches from hers, body even closer. She could feel every liquor laced breath fan her cheeks. She watched him, steady as their synchronized movement slowed to a halt. “Jo,” Dean spoke, trepidatious.

“Will you shut up for once?” She placed a hand beside his neck and pulled him in for a lips crashing, noses banging kind of kiss.

It was almost how she’d imagined it, shaking hands and fluttered stomachs and quick breaths. He pulled away to protest, so she slammed into him again. He couldn’t talk if his mouth was preoccupied, and it wasn’t like he wasn’t interested. His lips found their rhythm, and his hands fumbled with the hem of her shirt until he grew a pair and found the skin on the small of her back.

His hands were rough, large, kneady, and with one fowl swoop, he could have had her backed into a wall, legs around his thick waist. He didn’t though. He remained a gentlemen, hands shy, lips even more so. Tender felt appropriate.

Finally, they broke apart for a breath, her eyes closed, his forehead pressed to hers, and she knew where this was headed.

“God damn,” Dean breathed.

“Dean.” She wanted him to stay, wanted to feel him weighing her down, feel his lips on her skin. She wanted to wake up with him in the morning and make him eggs. She wanted to read with him, spend rainy days cooped up under the covers doing research. She wanted to hunt beside him, monster blood spattering walls and the thrill of the fight. That was the problem, she wanted so much more than he was willing to give.

“I can’t.” She knew he couldn’t, but why did it have to dig like a knife every time he said it? “I want to. God, I want to.” He squeezed at her waist. “But I can’t. Not here, not now.”

She sighed. “Wrong place, wrong time?”

“I’m sorry.” His eyes meant it, meant the interminable apology, the constant rejection. Jo stepped out of his arms and scooped their glasses from the coffee table to dump in the sink.

“So did you kill the shifter, then? Or should I be watching my back?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, we got it.”

Jo turned and nodded, hugging her arms to herself. “Well thanks for taking care of it. Think you’ll give me a ring next time you stumble into the neighborhood?” She hated the emotion she felt behind her words, that lump in her throat.

“That depends. You need help with any of this?” He scratched at the back of his neck, gestured to the wall of dishonor.

She could say yes, make up lies, make him stay. He could crawl into her arms every night after a hunt. They could be a team. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He shot her a warning look.

“Dean, I’m kidding. It’s _fine_.”

They stood in silence for a long while. Jo avoided his gaze, staring at a bit of peeled wallpaper near the door. Dean watched her. She could feel him, eyes on her like they were at the bar, observing every movement. She wondered if this was how monsters felt, constantly under Dean’s excruciating gaze before he stabbed them through the heart with a silver dagger. Felt right. She felt bloody and torn to shreds.

“Thank you,” he shoved his large hands into the pockets of his jeans. “For the drinks, and the dance, and the…” He trailed off.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She shrugged, faking a smile and nod. “Anytime.”

“I should…” He pointed toward the door. She met him there, helped him pull his jacket over broad shoulders. The smell of his jacket lingered in her nostrils, all leather and engine grease. It made her weak in the knees.

“Tell Sam hi.” She squeezed his arm.

He placed a hand to her cheek then, thumb brushing her cheekbone. Jo let her eyes flutter closed. It felt patronizing, like he knew what she wanted and he was dangling it in front of her. His lips met hers, and she wanted to fight it, wanted to remain pursed lipped, but she melted right into it. Her hands groped at the collar of his jacket, thumbing past the lapels. The forefingers of the hand not on her face were brushing her hip bones just under her shirt, and it was all too much until it was nothing.

“See you later, Jo,” he nodded grimly, jaw set. He removed himself from the apartment, leaving her cold and alone. The clamber of his boots against steps were loud until there was nothing.

This place, these papered walls and secondhand furniture didn’t feel like home. Home had just turned and walked out that door. Jo locked up behind him and sprinkled salt over the crack for precaution. With tired limbs and tingling fingers, she made the motions of preparing for bed, and she finally snuck in with a hole inside that wouldn’t be repaired for months, maybe years, maybe ever. She just had to be patient and wait for the right place and the right time.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first Supernatural fic ever. I'm re-binging the series for the first time in well over 10 years, and I've always been a big DeanxJo shipper. I had to get it out, you know? I'm mid-season 6 right now. Life is rough. I haven't watched past season 7, so I'm intrigued and excited to see what else this show had to offer. Maybe I'll write more, if I feel inspired. Thanks, as always, for reading xo


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